Sister, Sister
Black Girl Magic.
You’ve probably come across the term at some recent point in your life.
He is quiet though,until u get him alone and he becomes the funniest and cutest guy ever.
Credit: Richard Louissaint; HarperCollins
He gives the BEST hug!!.
Poor bastard was definitely openly sobbing while typing this with one hand.)
Example: That girl’s dark skin is so beautiful, nothing but Black girl magic!
Usage in popular culture: Most Real Housewives of Atlanta and Potomac describing themselves at one point or another.
Everyone loves themselves a good BGM moment these days.
“That’s adorable.”
She snorts, tucking sheets on her corner and passing her hand over it like a diligent iron.
“It’s not adorable, Mom.
It’s about resilience!”
I’ve read, studied, and SparkNoted Angela Davis and bell hooks now.
“So, am I Black Girl Magic?”
she says, pretending to throw a long mane of invisible silk hair over her shoulder.
“Not with those edges,” I say and subsequently receive a duvet to the face.
There are brief moments of equal-footed friendship between us now.
That’s cute."
There’s no bite to thecute.
See also:inoffensive, sweet,anddelightful.
The weariness in her voice is something I won’t soon forget.
The way she sayscutewearily makes me think that she’s recalling a memory.
It is dripping with personal experience.
To this day, it’s hard not to see Belzie’s point.
The girls at that particular table were particularly unimpressed with my beingand the quizzes were vicious.
“What’s Kanye’s album’s name?”
“College Dropout.”
“Do you even know the difference between Kanye and Fitty?”
“Yeah, I know Fifty.”
It’sFitty," Angela corrects.
“Not Fifty; Fitty.”
“I bet you he knows Celine’s last album, though,” her friend Karine adds.
“What was Celine’s last album, Rubeintz?”
“I don’t listen to that crap.”
“Bulls—-!”
She’s cradling a green-haired baby on the cover, which was kind of weird.
Good stuff, but the 2007 followupD’Ellesis where I’ll really feel it, y’know?
(Get off my jock, all right: Celine has bops.)
Mind you, there should be no shame in having known that, but there was.
Blackness I can soak up from the outside, without eyes turning my way.
I’m an Oreo that aspires to be chocolate flavored.
And these relationships are game changers in many ways.
The first real one is Nina.
I’M NINETEEN when we meet.
“We’re going to be friends.”
And just like that, we’re friends for the better part of four years.
We study and write essays together in empty classrooms when the campus libraries get too crowded.
It’s what you do for a sis.
Around campus, she is far more popular than me.
A side effect of being friendlier, I imagine.
It’s one of Columbia’s would-be cultural fraternitiesa gateway for politically active POCs.
“What’s tonight again?”
I say, peeking outside her dorm room to the alley rumbling with activity and international food trays.
There’s an open house tonight.
“I was hoping to write.”
“What’s the word count for watchingThe Social Networkfor the eighth time?”
Nina asks, getting ready in her bathroom, ironing her hair in a bra.
“Seventh,” I defend.
“We’re mixing with the larger community.”
“We were all supposed to bring friends who aren’t members.
Jewish organizations, Asian organizations, Caucasian classmates.
They said that: Caucasian classmates.
Sounds like a ska band.”
“Aren’t you kind of phoning it in by just bringing me, then?”
Nina’s head pops out of her bathroom, eyes wide with embarrassment and a hand to her chest.
“Oh my god!”
“This is so embarrassing!
“I hate your ass.”
Nina and I have never dated, let alone hooked up.
I don’t talk to Nina much these days.
(Tell-some, not tell-all, remember?)
There’s no resentment there.
Around the time of meeting Nina, Morgan also comes my way.
Even the professor, a gregarious gay man, cannot help himself: “That is alook!”
It might be inappropriate if the entire classroom didn’t agree.
After class, Morgan and I end up walking toward and into the same building.
This lasts into the 600W dorms' elevators at which point we’re getting off at the same floor.
We’re floormates, as it turns out.
“I thought you were creeping and following me home.
(Yes, she’s one of those.
It offends me, too.)
I’ve tried to imagine my life without this chance encounter and in many ways, I can’t.
Morgan is so many things, foundational among them.
She will set the grading curve in that Japanese Monsters class while also partying all over New York City.
Her birthday celebrations happen at warehouses where circus performers twirl all night.
Her friends don’t like me, and I never warmed up to them.
She makes no show of pretending to like mine either.
“Whyare all your friends white, Ben?”
“Who hurt you?”
“White people like me.”
“They’re not known for their taste, babe.”
She snorts, sitting down next to me.
“Why are allyourfriends Black?”
“I f— with some white people,” she says eventually.
“But you have to feel safe to befriendswith someone.
You in danger every time I see you, girl.”
It’s admittedly pretty cool to see an entire swim team look away like ashamed toddlers.
The woman is vexingly good at every last thing.
The cover to this book?
It’s not all praises either, mind you.
Occasionally, I feel emboldened by this.
If Nina was a soul sister, Morgan is the bang out whose pigtails I enjoy pulling.
“Do you ever think about the fact that all the men you date are punks?”
“Excuse me?”
Morgan is occasionally a fun stovetop to touch.
“You date punks,” I continue, sounding out each word.
I continue, knowing I sound like a whiny little sibling who wants attention.
“Poor little punk asses.”
Do you want to rephrase that?”
“I just did my eyes: I’m giving you a chance here.”
“No, Morgan: I do not want to rephrase that.”
I have no plans tonight myself.
“I said punk ass.
I say, muffled and in pain after ten minutes of thrashing.
“I can’t breathe, you mare!”
“Your life would be so much easier if you were mute.
Ever think of that?”
she adds with a sigh and not a single hair out of place.
“See you tomorrow morning!”
He’s lying if he says he’s out of condoms!”
I suppose there’s maybe just a bit of magic on occasion.
SURE, I’LL BE YOUR BLACK FRIEND.
Copyright2021 by Ben Philippe.
Reprinted here with permission of Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
